


Ace of Mirage

by Phosphorite



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Host Clubs, I Don't Even Know, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorite/pseuds/Phosphorite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regardless of what Satsuki's said, there's something unpredictable about these people, even without the glitter and the glitz.</p>
<p>Or, what to do about the bizarre fascination with a certain smile when one person lies to himself and the other lies to everyone else.</p>
<p>[Host Club AU and late-as-hell birthday fic for marta]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ace of Mirage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendulum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendulum/gifts).



> There's a story behind this AU.
> 
> That story is short and consists of a number of flaily exchanges over a Whatsapp screen, when Marta and I once talked about the trope of Host Club AUs. Roughly a year (?) later, it actually happened when I decided to write it out for her birthday. And then it got out of hand.
> 
> Make no mistake, though.
> 
> Like lights in the dark, what you see is not always what you get.

 

 

 

He stares at the card between his thumb and index finger, but the words on it refuse to make sense.

_Kirarin_ ☆ _Club_

_Cocktails, Company & Guaranteed Fun!_

“Satsuki,” he says. “Your new job _cannot_ be at a hostess club.”

She draws in a long, deep breath – very reminiscent to all the times she judo-chopped him over the head as a kid, just for being obtuse.

“Dai-chan,” she sighs, though at twenty-four the chop no longer follows. “I’m not working at a––“

“ _Escort_ club, whatever,” he cuts her off, tossing the card back at her living room table like a piece of scrap paper. “Shit, I didn’t realize you were that desperate for money. You could have just asked me to lend you some.”

Not missing a beat, Satsuki narrows her eyes, and he cannot help but wince.

“Firstly,” she speaks, using that awfully calm voice that always precedes a storm, “Just because you’re lucky enough to get paid ridiculous amounts of money for the only thing you’re halfway capable of using your brain for, doesn’t mean the rest of us get that kind of privilege. And secondly…”

She leans over, hair dangling down in loose curls that seem as effortless as her smile. “What I do or do not do for a living is absolutely none of your right to judge.”

The sentiment does not come with a direct threat, but he knows her well enough to understand when he’s toying with his health. With a heavy swallow, he nods and lifts up his hands in an offering of peace.

“…It can’t be safe, though,” he still hazards, if just to convey that beneath everything, he _is_ genuinely concerned. “Your mom made me promise I’d look out for you in the city, so if anything happens she’ll have my head.”

Satsuki rolls her eyes. “You should try not letting so many basketballs hit you on the head, instead,” she sighs, but sympathy also slithers into her voice. “But look. How about you come pick me up from work tomorrow? You’ll see it’s not so bad.”

“You mean, at the hostess club?” he asks, and something unreadable flashes in her smile.

“Yeah, at the _hostess_ club,” Satsuki repeats, and for the life of him, Aomine Daiki cannot say what she finds so funny.

 

 

 

The clubfront Aomine arrives at roughly six thirty in the morning is not, as Satsuki put it, so bad.

In fact, it looks nothing like the sleazy places he’s heard of popping up and dying out on the streets of Roppongi, but it’s not the first time looks can deceive: judgmental or not, the mere idea of his childhood friend working to entertain drunken salarymen simply makes his skin crawl.

It’s well past any salaryman’s bedtime though, as Satsuki’s asked him to arrive early in the morning. They’ll be wrapping the place up by then, she’s explained in a previous message, because a club works in reverse hours: in the entertainment business, one shift ends when most people wake up for theirs. A _Closed_ sign precedes him at the entrance, but Satsuki’s told him just to push through.

The low light hits Aomine in the face as he steps inside, and it takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust.

When the view clears before him, though, it takes a lot longer for his brain to adjust.

The voluminous-haired girls he expects to swarm about are missing. The morning sun mixes with the shadows and clings across the sleek couches, but they aren’t lined with heels, fake lashes or low-cut tops; someone’s definitely fast asleep on one of the seats and he can spot another holding his head in the corner, but both of them are positively male.

No, _all_ of the employees that still laze on the premises in various states of fatigue are men. The only girl within a single mile radius is the short-haired woman with a tablet in hand, who nods at Aomine from across the bar.

“Oh, hey. You must be _Dai-chan_. Momoi said you’d show up around this time.”

He takes a puzzled step towards her, and her face breaks into a smile.

“I’m the manager of Kirarin Club,” she says, gesturing at the sign near the counter. “But call me Riko, okay?”

“Uh,” Aomine responds like a caveman, and the woman simply laughs.

“Momoi will be right with you. It was a busy night, so it’ll take her a little longer to go through the figures… Just sit down wherever while you wait for her, alright? We’re just about to finish for tonight.”

“Uh,” Aomine says again, but this time he takes her cue. There’s a table nearby, discreet enough to seem like the safest option while his simple little brain goes over the following facts:

Fact one: this is not a hostess club.

Fact two: this is, nonetheless, an escort club.

Fact three: Satsuki is, in fact, working at a _host_ club.

A club where it's the men who entertain women.

“…You look kinda lost. Are you sure you’ve come to the right place?”

Aomine flinches, head snapping towards the voice.

There’s a man leaning against his table, but he looks neither drowsy nor hungover. Instead, his eyes are alert in the dusty air, something amused tugging on his mouth. Blond hair, sharp clothes, the way his hand runs across the back of the chair opposite to Aomine’s own – Christ, he realizes, this guy must be one of the _hosts_.

“Uhhh,” Aomine still says, because his vocal track is seemingly stuck on a repeated loop until Satsuki shows up to save him.

Almost as if the guy senses this, he tilts his head with a curious look.

“You’re waiting for Momocchi, right?” he asks, “Sorry, I overheard. Is she your girlfriend?”

“What,” Aomine blurts out, even though what he really means to say is _no_ ; it prompts a little laugh before the guy sits down across the table like observing an exotic animal wandered in from the wild.

No, it's definitely a host. Those jawbones might be genetic, but that entire aura is _learned_ : pushing up one hand to support his chin, there’s something very distracting about the fingertips that dance over the guy’s lips before he opens his mouth to speak.

“…So, what’s your name?

Aomine lifts a brow.

Okay, so his experience with hosts can be reduced to the four and a half minutes since he set foot inside this club, but this is not a tone _anyone_ would mistake. The gold in those eyes deepens a lot like Satsuki’s does whenever she’s out to conquer a goal, and it’s enough of a warning sign to set Aomine on guard.

The scene breaks before he can respond, though.

When the door at the back swings open with a loud clatter, a tall man storms out with his pretty face contorted in rage.

“You have to be joking, right?! I can’t pull a night like I did today and _still_ come second in the ratings!!”

The woman who introduced herself as Riko halts the man before he crosses past to the bar, roughly grabbing him by the arm. “Tatsuya,” she hisses, “ _Not in front of customers_.”

“I’m not a––“ Aomine chokes out instinctively, but nobody’s paying him any mind; even the blond guy has slowly stood up, eyes now fixed on the fuming man.

“Himuro,” he says politely, but it comes with an edge that’s clearly meant to taunt.

Riko’s hold on the man’s arm tightens for a second, but the spark never ends up lighting the fuse. Instead, the fury on his face morphs into a smile with a courteous, "Kise."

It’s all fake, of course.

The realization sets in with sudden unease; as the blond guy–– no, it's Kise, right?–– eyes back in his direction, Aomine's teeth grit together. Both of these men, there's probably not a sincere bone in their body – everyone knows escort clubs are only a ploy to drain desperate men and women off their hard-earned money, so anyone who’s brazen enough to work at such a place must not only be entirely unreliable, but also––

“Dai-chan! I’m all done now, sorry for taking so long!”

The warmth of Satsuki’s energy blows in like a breeze, and she beams at Riko on her way past the bar.

“Everyone did really well tonight," she gushes excitedly, "I think we might have broken a new record! Especially––”

When her eyes land on Kise standing next to Aomine’s table, Satsuki comes to a cautious halt.

“…Ki-chan,” she says, and her tone makes Kise take a full step back.

“H, hey,” he blurts out, confidence marred by a sudden fluster; the change could be as mesmerizing as Himuro’s from before, but the way Kise whispers in Satsuki's ear also seems… kinda comical. “…He _said_ you two weren’t dating.”

“We’re not,” Satsuki responds softly, before shooting Kise a loaded _Look_. It’s a lot like the ones she’s often stared Aomine down with in the past, but she turns before he can second guess its true meaning.

“Well, Dai-chan,” Satsuki says with triumph. “This is where I work. If you’d bothered checking the other side of my card, you’d know I’m not a hostess. I’m a bookkeeper.”

“Whatever,” is all Aomine counters, but it's not embarrassment that leaves him feeling perplexed.

Because behind Satsuki, a golden stare still fixes on him like a node pinging wildly on Aomine's radar, shifting between smooth and a peculiar dork; the signal only grows louder when Kise's fingers curl around a strand of Satsuki's hair, and she neither grows tense nor shrugs him off.

For fuck's sake.

What the hell _is_ this guy?

Kise's eyes flick back up like sensing his thoughts, and the lip he bites down twists at the part of Aomine that rarely feels anything less than a D-cup.

_Run_ , Aomine's mind screams, and he grabs Satsuki's hand at once.

"Wh–– what's the big idea?!" she yelps, but it's not Aomine's fault. One by one the mysteries of the Kirarin Club might be slotting into place, but there's one that follows even past the door – a mystery that's roughly six foot two with a smile like a kaleidoscope.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Satsuki sighs before they part ways, “But they’re good people. They’re not all callous deep down.”

It helps nothing.

The dust of the club clears quickly in the daylight, but hours later Aomine still can't help wondering which parts of that smile weren't fake.

 

 

 

_Dai-chan. You really don’t need to walk me home again._

There’s little to misunderstand about Satsuki’s message.

Still, at six a.m. the neon sign for _Kirarin_ ☆ _Club_ stares Aomine in the face again, a feeble glow in the haze of the morning. He knows he’s half an hour early; it’s a fact he’s trying hard to shrug off, in the hopes of not having to ask himself why.

This time he recognizes Riko’s voice when she calls him in.

It’s as far as the greetings go, because she’s too busy talking to another employee. This one has dark hair too, parted at the front; his energy is strangely contagious, the way he tries to charm Riko into giving him a day off.

“Come on! I did everything you asked,” he whines, but it comes with a sly grin, “I even got Kaede-chan to buy three bottles instead of two. She wasn’t going to, at first, but I thought _Ah, manager-san would be so happy if she did. Manager-san has the nicest smile when she’s happy. Manager-san––_ “

“Nice try, Kazunari,” Riko cuts him off bluntly, “But I have three reservations on you on the day you want to run off with your boyfriend. Either he shells up the cash for all of them, or it’s not happening.”

“You’re so cold, Riko-chan,” the man groans in defeat, switching registers so quickly that it once more makes Aomine narrow his eyes.

Regardless of what Satsuki's said, these people–– there's something unpredictable about them, even without the glitter and the glitz. The drowsiness of morning still makes the shadows hang heavy, as if he's entered the darker side of the moon.

Perhaps, this is why it feels twice as radiant to behold a sun.

"Haah, so you came back!"

The energy that bleeds from Kise's voice is playful and light, and it whirls Aomine around at once. He doesn't–– mean to, any more than he means to bash a table with his foot; normally he's more agile than anyone on the basketball court, but something about this place is throwing him off his game.

"Me and the others had a bet going on," Kise continues in jest. "Whether or not Momocchi's friend would show up again. Also, if you're capable of putting more than three words together, but the jury's still out on that one."

"The jury's still out on your _face_ ," Aomine counters on reflex, and subsequently feels like facepalming through the floor.

The childish barb silences Kise for a second, before stunned laughter spills from his lips. It's low and warm and definitely needs to end, before Aomine's mind decides whether it's annoying or bewildering or both.

"Satsuki's––" Aomine backpedals in haste, "I mean, this is a restless area. I–– came back because I wanted to make sure she got home safe."

"Of course," Kise says wryly, glancing over his shoulder towards Satsuki's office. When he does, Aomine notices someone's braided the side of his hair. It makes Aomine think of Riko's words, of champagne and reservations and dishonest persuasion, and he immediately yanks his head away.

"You shouldn't worry, though," Kise murmurs, oblivious to his unease. "If a guy even looked at Momocchi wrong, they wouldn't get the chance to try again."

The unexpected rawness in Kise's tone is enough to catch Aomine by surprise. It flashes on Kise's face once more when he turns, but the kaleidoscope realigns just as quickly; waving the comment off with a strained chuckle, it seems like honesty Kise hadn't really meant to divulge.

"I mean, everyone here watches out for one another," he grins, but Aomine senses its guarded edge. "Rikocchi doesn't put up with nonsense. She's incredibly professional."

"Like you?" Aomine says sharply, but this time the comment tenses Kise's jaw.

“That's––“ Kise begins in sudden irritation, yet it’s as far as he gets. Like sensing a crack in his facade, a swift shadow moves in from the sidelines and places a hand on Kise's arm.

"Yukari-san sends her regards, and is sorry to hear you were _double booked tonight_ ," Himuro murmurs, "What a _shame_ for that mix-up, when her reservation was made months in advance."

Whatever soured Himuro's mood before must not have changed overnight, because the way his expression changes makes the hair stand up on Aomine's skin.

“I'm not covering for you again, though," Himuro continues, "Takao might be fine with your bait-and-switches, but I'm not someone to dump your fuck-ups on."

Letting his hand fall, Himuro casts Aomine a sideways glance.

"Oh, _sorry_ ," he says softly, "I didn't realize you were there."

The lie in Himuro's apology reawakens the unease in Aomine's chest, and it once more reminds him of why he should not be here.

"Whatever," he mutters, pushing past them both to wait for Satsuki outside; when he goes, he pretends not to notice the spite that curves the side of Himuro's mouth.

It's a lot harder, though, pretending not to see the strange conflict in Kise's eyes.

 

 

 

_Dai-chan. Come on. You can't keep waking up at this hour. Just go home._

Technically, he doesn't go back.

Technically, it's not–– like that, because if he waits for Satsuki at the club-front, it's not the same as running into anyone who's inside. As long as he stands there going over the same old sports feed on his phone, it's definitely not the same thing as hoping that somehow, maybe, someone might eventually step outside.

The fact that he arrives an hour earlier than before has nothing to do with this.

Surely, surely not.

All he knows is that the golden node refuses to die on his radar, shifting back and forth each night. From Satsuki's fondness to Himuro's dry exposé, the man named Kise Ryouta simply doesn't–– make any _sense_ , trapping Aomine between fascination and discontent.

It's infuriating, it's alarming, and at five a.m. the neon sign glows even brighter in the dark.

His thumb runs over the news feed again, but the story about his teammate's ankle injury still clings to the top of the screen. It's kind of ironic, actually; Kagami never would have run into that point guard in the first place if Aomine hadn't been too sleepy to focus at practice.

"...You play ball, right? Momocchi told me."

Jesus christ, how the hell does this guy _do_ that?

This time Aomine doesn't flinch at Kise's voice, though. Maybe it's because of the darkness, maybe it's the way Kise's shoulders slouch with less energy when he slinks outside; the door that closes behind him drains the sound of music and laughter, leaving only a soft thud beneath their feet.

A light flickers quickly in Kise's palm before clinging to the end of his cigarette, a trail of smoke billowing in the nightly breeze.

"I don't usually take breaks this late," he explains, unprompted. "But we're down to our last rotation, and I haven't exactly been at the top of my game."

Rotation. Game. All of these are words that sound strange, coming so brazenly from Kise's mouth tonight; gone is the tease and playful innocence, as the embers of his cigarette turn Kise's eyes a tired shade of amber.

Seeing him so listless, Aomine realizes it's the most human he's seen Kise since the two of them met.

"...Is this something you always wanted to do?"

Kise's shoulders twitch with surprise, registering the frankness of Aomine's question. He's not sure why he asks it – it's not out of naive disapproval anymore, but a genuine wonder at why the person before him turned out the way he did.

After a brief silence, Kise lets out a laugh.

It's hollow in a way that sounds sardonic rather than feigned, like part of Kise has been waiting for someone to ask him that very question.

"I used to do modeling in my teens," he says, flicking off some ash. As he leans against the side of the building, Kise's mouth scrunches up in juvenile way. "Could have made a lasting career out of it, probably. But I just got so _bored_ with how easy everything it was, you know...?"

It's a _you know_ that seems to say more than Aomine knows yet, but deep down it feels like something he nonetheless understands – a lot like the aimlessness he felt in his later teens, until he lucked out with a team that demolished all of his comfort zones.

_I don't care if you spend all your nights baking soufflés or whacking off to Mai-chan_ , he remembers the way Kagami barked after his sprained ankle, _But if you keep making others bear the brunt of your mess-ups, I'm getting you demoted to second string._

The vividness of that memory makes Aomine think of Himuro's words to Kise, and just like that the scene once more breaks.

A blast of music blares through the silence as Himuro emerges in the doorway. Gesturing towards Kise, his face is deadpan when he speaks.

"Yukari-san is here to talk to you now."

_Fuck_ , Kise mouths in an inward groan, but ultimately lowers his head. "...Alright. I'll deal with it outside, okay?"

Part of the former Kise comes alive, of course, when a pretty girl steps out and follows him down the street. Her unhappiness makes her reserved at first, but his animated expressions and light touches soon drain the caution from her face.

Seeing that magic in motion is as bizarre and predictable as Aomine thought it would be, and he hates the way it tightens something his chest.

"You know how it works, don't you?"

The way Himuro flicks up a light mirrors Kise's gestures, a cigarette settling between his fingers as he leans against the wall. Blowing out smoke in the direction of Kise and the girl, he follows the words up with a nod.

"It's a copy," Himuro goes on, ignoring Aomine's silence. "He copies whatever it is that they feel, and mirrors it back. That's why he's our top host, third year running – he becomes exactly what you want him to be. That's the secret behind Kiseryou-kun, or should I say, _the Ace of Mirage_."

It comes out unintentionally bitter, but when Himuro eyes at Aomine, a smile nonetheless trails his lips. "Not that it's a fool-proof trick, of course. The guys Riko-san hires usually aren't straight, specifically to avoid situations like this."

In spite of himself, Aomine steals another look at the girl. Her head is tilted up with pained adoration, Kise's hand hovering near her cheek; it's hard to say what they're talking about, yet Kise's body language is far too intimate for it to seem coincidental.

"Girls, boys," Himuro mutters, dragging a long, dry breath from his cigarette, "It's never mattered to him as long as they're pretty. All he's looking for is a challenge. All he cares about is the chase."

For the first time since he can remember, Aomine feels tired down to his bones _._

It has to be tiredness, the way something heavy suddenly drags on his heart. It can't be–– disappointment, after all, because to admit to any other feeling would mean confessing the real reason he hasn't caught a good night's sleep in days.

In the end, maybe the games they play aren't so different.

Maybe they are both kings of their court, even if Kise's is filled with glitter and mirage; but the difference is that his is a court Aomine cannot enter, locked outside that kaleidoscope like a fool trying to catch it before it shifts.

"You're not waiting for Momoi-san tonight?" Himuro comments, but Aomine doesn't bother with a response.

There's something very sobering about the nightly air, about seeing Kise's eyes widen when he passes them by. It makes him feel–– in control again, like it's still in his power to crush any cunning curveballs Kise might throw his way.

He manages a total of fifteen meters down the road, though, before a hand shoots out and whirls him around in haste.

"Wait," Kise wheezes, something very disheveled making him stutter, "You never–– if you come back tomorrow, you should tell me your name."

_You know my name_ , Aomine wants to snap with jagged pride, but when Kise yanks his head up the response dies on his lips.

_One more time_ , those eyes scream in the darkness, _Let me play one more time, and I'll finally get this right._

...For fuck's sake.

Maybe it's around here he should really ask himself how he knows this, or why it seems just as obvious that Kise knows that he knows. But these aren't the rules either one of them has ever played this game with, so all he says is, "Fine."

He's going to regret this, he knows he will.

No, he already regrets it, but what he still says is, _Fine._

 

 

 

_Dai-chan. Are you sure there's not something you want to tell me?_

The excuses, on the other hand, are starting to wear thin.

“Mine-chin,” comes the yawn from above his head, “…Why am I here?”

“For distraction,” Aomine says, completely honest for a change; _and because I don’t know anyone else who would have agreed to go_ , he could add but doesn't, since Murasakibara doesn’t exactly care about where he’s actually headed, so long as he’s promised free food.

Technically, Aomine doesn’t know if the club even serves any. But they must have snacks, and it takes his teammate around fifteen minutes to down ten jars of crackers. If Murasakibara can keep that annoying Himuro off his back even for that long, then maybe Aomine can finally figure out what it is about Kise that's repeatedly making him come back to this club.

But at four thirty in the morning, it’s a completely different world.

The dust no longer lingers; it swirls in the air the second he walks in. The lights glitter like a pathway in the dark, leading up to the counter that he’s never seen anything other than vacant. There’s a girl behind it now, because apparently Riko doesn’t trust logistics in the hands of men – Aomine doesn’t blame her, really, with the rowdiness that surrounds him at all sides.

The girl shoots him a puzzled look, but holds up a pen. “Uhm, did you have a reservation with someone or––“

“Here’s the thing,” Aomine cuts her off more sharply than he intends, but he’s got approximately twenty seconds before his nerves kick in. “I’ll pay double for what anyone’s got booked on that Himuro guy to make sure he stays fixed on one table with this idiot, alright?”

Murasakibara seems admirably unfazed by his surroundings, simply giving a shrug. “Mine-chin said there’d be cake.”

“You heard him,” Aomine nods at the girl, “Just make them sit there and eat cake for like, an hour or something. I don’t care.”

It’s hardly the most elaborate plan, but it’ll have to do. Even if he and Murasakibara aren’t the best of friends, he’s still a teammate Aomine can trust. The only other person he bothers regularly talking to is dumbass Kagami, but he’s far too much of a sweet summer child to ever have agreed to go.

“And you?” the girl addresses Aomine next, apparently having encountered stranger requests, “Who would you like to escort you tonight?”

“Wh–– no, no-one,” Aomine chokes out, wildly shaking his head, “That’s not–– I’m only here to––“

It doesn’t occur to him until now that he hasn’t really thought this far ahead.

To be completely honest, Aomine’s not sure what this whole excursion is even meant to accomplish. So far everything's just kind of _happened_ , but now that he’s actually here like this, it feels absurd to admit _why_ ; that deep down he might have hoped to–– wanted to–– well––

The laughter and cheers mix with the pulsating music, overwhelming his sleep-deprived mind. The chance to rebound comes with critical delay when a light hand touches his arm.

“…You look lost. Are you sure you've come to the right place?”

Oh _for fuck’s sake._

Whether the words are throwback to their first meeting or simply a faceless pick-up-line, the touch of Kise's fingers is enough ambivalence to make Aomine's guard shatter right in his face.

“IF YOU'VE GOT THAT MUCH TIME TO WORRY ABOUT ME, HOW ABOUT YOU CUT THE BULLSHIT AND COME AT ME WITH WHO YOU REALLY ARE?! ”

A nearby table comes to an abrupt silence, and for a good ten seconds all Kise does is blink.

Then he starts to laugh.

It's an ugly laugh – one dorky, snot-filled snort following another in an outburst as hysterical as Aomine's own. It's nothing like the low chuckles that gave Aomine a weird feeling, but this also feels warmer, more unintentional–– like the hand Kise desperately clamps over his mouth, when the hiccups drain what is left of his cool facade.

"What's so fucking funny?!" Aomine cannot help but gripe, but it only makes Kise snort even harder. Watching him bend twofold like he's finally gone and snapped, more tables start staring, and in approximately fifteen seconds Aomine feels a sharp yank on his ear.

"Okay, _that's_ _it!_ "

Satsuki's a lot stronger than she lets on, dragging both of them into her office. Her hair's done up in a carefree bun, but her expression reigns holy fire.

"Look, Dai-chan, I didn't mind you using me as an excuse while you sulked around the place, trying to will Ki-chan into noticing you with the power of your own self-denial," Satsuki snaps, shoving a finger in Aomine's face, "But this is going too far. You're going to get me fired."

Before he can let out a squeak, she whirls around and pokes Kise square in the forehead.

"And _you_. I told you, Ki-chan," she pokes him harder to the rhythm of her words, " _You have. To play. Nice._ Dai-chan might be an idiot, but he's also a sensitive idiot, and a very good friend."

"It's not––" Kise yelps in fluster, much like on the day they first met, "Like that, I––"

As though remembering that Aomine's still in the room, Kise grows silent at once. The way Satsuki's eyes narrow reminds Aomine of an impending storm, and he swallows to brace the blow.

" _Both of you are just as horrible as one another!_ " she hisses, but the judo chop still doesn't come.

Instead, Satsuki lets out a worn-out sigh and shakes her head. "...Look. I get that this–– environment isn't really ideal for being honest. But you'll get nowhere the way you are, with one person lying to himself and the other lying to everyone else."

It's not the first time she's made Aomine wince with rebuttal, but this one's far more than a sting.

Kise goes unusually silent, too. It's impossible to say what he's thinking; the disillusioned side of Aomine knows that the people who live in his world have a thousand and one different truths, all suited to evolve. But when Kise finally lifts his head, the aura around him is different from any colours of the kaleidoscope.

"And what would a person have to do," Kise addresses Satsuki calmly, "To get out of that environment for a while?"

Satsuki lifts a single impressed brow.

"I think we might be able to work something out," she says, and the curve of her lips is dangerous and comforting at the same time.

 

 

 

_Dai-chan, make sure you're not late! And remember to bring the blanket I bought. You won't get lost on the way, right?_

The park is packed with a sea of people, from families to couples to teenagers taking riverside selfies. It's no less unfamiliar to Aomine than the glow of a club-front, though – he doesn't even remember the last time he saw cherry trees in bloom. Every Spring he simply found no reason to bother until the blossoms were already long gone.

Not this Spring, though.

"Hey, stop fidgeting," Satsuki says, reaching over to pull a petal off Aomine's hair, "He's only five minutes late."

"I wasn't––" he counters on instinct, but bites his tongue when she shoots him another _Look_. Satsuki has every reason to, of course; one of her top conditions for coming along was that he would at least try and swallow his attitude for a day.

As for what the other conditions are, well, he only wishes he knew. All Satsuki's told him is that the whole club is closed tonight, but ignored any further questions with a secretive, "Well, who knows why?"

That annoying smugness clings to her voice now, nodding behind Aomine while the straw of a strawberry frappe dangles from the side of her mouth.

"Oh, look. There he is now."

It's kind of pathetic, how it still makes Aomine yank his head around.

It's even more–– dumbfounding, when his eyes widen at the person coming alive before his eyes. Beneath the glimmer and the intricate hair stands a lively young man, who finally feels like Aomine's age; the asymmetrical shirt and draped pants are still flashy enough to fit right in with the magazines Aomine decidedly avoids, but they look strangely natural when paired with an exuberant smile.

That smile might falter briefly when their eyes meet at a distance, but it takes more than stark daylight to make Kise stall.

In Satsuki's lap, a black-and-white puppy lifts up and bolts out to meet him halfway. It helps cut any awkward greetings when Kise yelps in surprise.

"Haah, Momocchi, I didn't know you had a dog!"

Satsuki laughs, pulling the puppy back into her arms. It tries to paw at the picnic blanket, but only manages to knock over her frappe.

"He's not mine, sadly," she says, "I'm just looking after Nigou at the moment, while his owner is away."

Satsuki gives Aomine a swift side-eye when she adds, "Dai-chan was supposed to, at first, but then Tetsu-kun realized the dog would probably die."

" _Hey_ ," Aomine barks, but the protest doesn't hold much strength; part of him is far too distracted with the sound of Kise's laughter, and how he sprawls next to Satsuki with a drink almost identical to hers.

"Come on, Dai-chan," Satsuki laughs and nudges Aomine with her platform sandal, "At least say hello."

Aomine opens his mouth, then turns his head. The second he finds Kise staring back in his direction, the five-year-old in him busts through like a helpless attempt to hide from the sun in that smile.

"You look really stupid."

Kise's face twists in an instant, an equally childish pout following his insulted " _Hey_!!"

"...Oh god," Satsuki sighs like she's made a terrible mistake, and in his lap Nigou lets out a defeated whine.

Maybe it's just a coincidence, but from then on it becomes a lot less intimidating to replace mirage with real life. Watching Kise chatter cross-legged next to Satsuki is no less superficial, but the smoke and mirrors–– they stay gone. Each grin, each frown, each glance Kise steals when he thinks Aomine's not looking – all of it still comes wrapped in a layer of performance, but in a way that discloses more than it tries to hide.

Somehow, it all tugs on that five-year-old in Aomine who still deals with complicated feelings through tease.

"Why are you two obsessed with these anyway?" he squints, downing almost half of Kise's frappe before he can react. "They're not even good."

" _Do you have any idea how long I queued for that?!_ " comes the mortified cry, and Nigou barely escapes with his life before Kise lunges to save what remains of his drink. It's nothing short of juvenile to pull the cup from his reach, but Aomine can't help reveling in Kise's annoyance, like an unmasked fire that only he can gouge ou––

Kise's hands land flat on his chest, and everything in Aomine's head suddenly screams, _Run_.

_Run run run run run_ , it continues to freak once something equally unrehearsed flashes on Kise's face, _Run while you're still––_

"Hey, isn't that Midorin?"

Leave it to Satsuki to always come to Aomine's rescue. Unintentional as it might be, her sudden piqued interest distracts Kise enough to pull back, too.

"Ah, let me––" he mutters, digging into his pockets to hide his fluster, "They won't hear us, so I'll text him, okay?"

Following the direction of their gaze, Aomine sees a tall man in the distance pull out his phone. The man standing next to him looks familiar, craning his head to see the display; while the taller one lets out a jolt and covers his face, his companion glances around excitedly until he spots Kise.

Satsuki waves back at them. "How fun! I didn't know he and Takao-kun were coming, too."

_Fun_ doesn't seem very fitting to how this 'Midorin' glares at them, reluctantly trailing after the other man. Aomine recognizes him now, of course – he's the host who tried to coax Riko into giving him a day off.

When he points this out, the grin on Takao's face widens.

"I know, right?" he snorts, "How doomed was that? Riko-chan can be so brutal... But I guess Ryouta's little stunt was more than enough to change her mind."

In two seconds flat, Kise's entire posture grows tense and he lets out a shrill, unbearably fake laugh. "Hey, who here wants to hear an incredibly detailed monologue about Midorimacchi's new job?!"

"Please die," comes the curt response, but through everyone's laughter Aomine notes how Kise no longer returns his gaze.

Even after the sniggers die down and Takao and Midorima leave, it stays that way. Maybe Aomine is the only one who notices, so used to observing the way Kise shifts, but it's obvious they're slowly slipping back into half-hearted smiles. The childish attempts to spark a reaction still work, but there's something hesitant behind each over-exaggerated cry.

Aomine hates it, hates it, hates it, but he doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

By six p.m. the park grows less crowded, and Satsuki stretches out her arms. "I should head home. Nigou's getting agitated, and I still need to revise the budget for next month. Reo-nee said that someone at the club made a gigantic order on sweets and snacks, though I've no idea why."

Almost choking on his windpipe, the coughing grants Aomine fifteen seconds of overtime when Satsuki gets up and bids them goodbye. Because in fifteen seconds he's meant to–– _say_ something, or _do_ something, but a part of him feels lost like they're back inside the dusty club.

"... _Damn_ , " Kise materializes his thoughts in words, a curse passing his lips when he lifts up his phone. "I completely forgot this would happen."

"Huh?" is all Aomine thinks of in response, and Kise lets out a groan.

"Me and Takaocchi are roommates," he explains, biting his lip, "But if he has a day off with Midorimacchi, it means I can't spend the night at home."

Something befuddled flashes on Kise's face when he adds, "...Normally I'd just get a hotel room for myself or something, but right now I'm, ah... well, my budget is a little tight."

It could easily be an act, or the prelude to the world's lousiest excuse: for a host club's most successful employee three years in a row, it makes little sense Kise should ever be strapped for money. But it's not the contradiction that alerts Aomine, rather than its implication – something Kise has purposefully been avoiding all day, clicking together like a puzzle when Aomine remembers Riko's former reason to decline someone's day off.

_Either he shells up the cash for all of them, or it’s not happening._

It's Kise, he realizes with startling clarity.

It's Kise who's blown all his earnings – not on a paid escort, but for a chance of a normal day with _him_.

For.

_Fuck's._

_Sake._

Aomine takes a deep breath, counts to ten, swallows down something raw.

_RUN_ , his mind screams in capital letters, _IF YOU DON'T BOLT NOW THEN YOU PROBABLY NEVER WILL_.

Still, when he exhales the words come out natural and light.

"...Well, d'you want to stay over at my place?"

 

 

 

In the train ride it takes to get back to Aomine's apartment block, the guard around Kise slowly but surely begins to come undone.

Maybe it's because Aomine never comments on the truth he's discovered, never forces Kise to shed what remains of his protective mask. It's not really a question of lies anymore, but rather... easing into a new rhythm, on the edge of a court neither one of them dominates.

"It's probably real messy," Aomine mutters at the door of his apartment, if just to hear his own voice in order to make sure he still has one.

"It can't be worse than living with another host," Kise comments dryly, but in the silence that passes they both share the same mental image, and the laughter that follows makes it easier to relax.

_God_ , Aomine thinks while stepping inside, _How insane._

How can he feel _relaxed_ when this is everything he'd ever feared: that his bizarre fascination with that infuriating smile would one day follow him home, or that he'd personally be the one to open the door.

"It's... it's not so bad," Kise struggles to comment at the cluttered hallway, but lets out a comical yelp when Aomine shoves him on the shoulder.

Maybe it really isn't so bad, indeed.

It's... normal, actually, in a way neither one of them probably anticipates; without Satsuki as their buffer, they're just two twenty-four-year-olds who waste little time getting into a fight. Hey, it just _happens_ , once Kise has the audacity to question how many sneakers a man can own without it becoming absurd.

It's an argument that trickles down to everything from favourite sports teams (why does Kise have such bad _taste_?) to whether the lone house plant in the corner is still alive (come on, it's not mummified _at all_ ), and it's–– trivial and superficial in a way that nonetheless feels comforting and... real.

It's only when Kise's hand runs over the back of the couch and grazes Aomine's arm that both of them seem to remember – why the two of them are here, and who Kise really is.

"I'm––" Aomine starts, but Kise would have to be halfway blind not to notice the tension that sets in his shoulders. Whether it's because of pride or simple overreaction, Kise pulls back with a spark of defiance in his eyes.

"What I do," he says softly, "Is part of me too."

It sounds like confrontation, or maybe a dare; _you can't only choose to see the parts you want_ , his expression adds, but it's not this side of Kise that's ever been the real issue.

Aomine's back slouches further down the couch, arm brushing against the hand that lingers between them on purpose.

"I don't care about what you do," he mutters, averting his gaze, "...As long as it makes you happy."

Both of them grow silent at the question he likewise withholds between the lines:

_Does it?_

Because the problem _isn't_ Kise's job, any more than it's the countless women he's paid to charm each night; deep down it's not a problem Aomine has any room to judge, probably, but he also cannot forget Kise's exhaustion on the day he tried to salvage an innocent girl's heart.

A look of unhappiness, a look of self-loathing – Aomine would have to be just as blind not to notice how Kise's shoulders lurch with something equally tired now, leaning back into Aomine's arm.

"...Two months. That's–– how long Takaocchi said he's got left at the club. After that, he and Midorimacchi are moving to Kyoto."

He pulls his legs up on the seat, but Aomine no longer flinches when Kise rests an unabashed head on Aomine's shoulder.

"Who knows," Kise murmurs, as much to himself as anyone who's listening, "...Maybe after that, Himuro will finally make number one."

The unspoken implication renders Aomine silent, but something strange also tugs on the corner of his mouth.

It could be the blond hair that tickles his chin, it could be the warmth that rests on his side; it could be the way Kise breathes heavily, or the way he ultimately closes his eyes; or it might simply be the relief of finally learning to play in sync, to combine Aomine's raw bluntness with Kise's guile.

"I thought you wanted the challenge," Aomine still cannot resist quipping, but although it's not even half past seven, Kise's response comes awfully sleepy.

"...Maybe I already found the one I was after," Kise says silently, like the part of him that's been guarding all that apathy is finally ready to rest.

Sure enough, in less than five minutes Kise is fast asleep.

It's... not disappointing, really, so much as it seems inevitable. Aomine might have been pushing his endurance for the past few days, but Kise's been doing this for _years_ ; with a messed up sleeping pattern and a fluctuating lifestyle, small wonder Kise ends up sleeping a good fifteen hours the first chance he gets.

Or maybe it's not just that.

Because the next morning Aomine opens his eyes to find Kise already awake, fully clothed beside him in the bed Aomine gracelessly dumped him in; but as much as the light is dusty like so many mornings before, it rests soft on Kise's cheekbones, the sun still amplified in his smile.

"Well," Aomine mutters, because it seems like the safest thing to do, "I didn't exactly think we'd end up teamed like this."

Kise's smile twists wryly, not an ounce of smoothness lost overnight. "...Well, nothing in life ever goes as planned anyway."

This time it's Aomine who snorts, and whose instincts scream nothing at all when Kise nudges his head closer – except to cut the bullshit, too, by seizing those lips before Kise so much as draws in another breath.

That's how it all works, after all. A push and pull of unpredictability, and a fire that sneaks beneath his skin; for years it was enough if Aomine felt it through the heat of a match, but the haste in which Kise rebounds and catches his tongue in an open kiss, well...

Isn't that more than enough proof, really, that some challenges can only be fulfilled through an ambitious heart instead?

(Whatever, whatever, whatever. Who has time to think about any of that, with Kise's fingers in his hair and laughter on his lips, when the sound still turns everything in Aomine's chest upside-down.)

The clock hits eleven a.m. and it's as far as anything gets, because it's as far as any of this is meant to go. Not because Aomine doesn't want it to (deep down he definitely does) or even because it eventually won't (it definitely will), but because it's that same ambition that disentangles Kise from his arms with a heavy yet determined look.

"I," he begins, short of breath, "Have stuff to sort out."

He doesn't need to be more specific than that. Both of them have grown complacent in life, but the spark that flows in his one last stolen kiss is also a mischievous sign: _Watch me. Try me. There's so much more I have yet to become._

As he later watches Kise lace up his ridiculous sneakers in the hall, it makes Aomine think of another brazen gamble that's yet to come full circle.

"Daiki," Aomine hears himself blurt out. "That's–– you wanted to know my name back then. It's Aomine Daiki."

_I know your name_ , Kise's bewildered expression says, but it's not long 'till he catches on.

"Well, Aominecchi," he says with a hint of playfulness. "...My name is Kise Ryouta, though most people seem to know me as Kiseryou-kun, or the _Ace of Mirage_."

The words leave his lips like a bitter irony, but hearing them no longer stings; all it sounds like is honesty, one Kise neither hides nor makes excuses for anymore.

"As for what you asked in return?" Kise adds, and pushes up his side-swept bangs; when his eyes land back on Aomine, the shade still deepens as though he's set on a goal, but there is no mistaking its meaning.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Aomine feels the golden node on his radar finally clicking in place.

"Well," Kise takes a deep breath, "This is me."

(It fixes right in the center of the grid.)

 

 

 

_"Ryooooouta! Ryouta! Come on, wake up, it's already four p.m.!"_

_There are days when Kise finds his roommate's energy endearing, and days when he kind of wants to push Takao out of the window._

_Said days might coincide with mornings-turned-afternoons, but it's also been a particularly rough night. A pounding in his head reminds him of the afterparty, while the blank parts are filled in by the e-mail address written on his arm; then again it would matter little either way, because no matter how much or little sleep he gets, deep down he never feels rested._

_"Please tell me Rikocchi called and gave me a surprise week off," he groans into his pillow, but the blinds Takao pulls up only make him squint into it harder._

_"No such luck," comes the reply, far too energetic for someone who downed at least half the amount of alcohol Kise did last night. "Though I'm still hoping she gives me next Saturday off. Shin-chan won't admit it, but I know he wants to see the cherry blossoms in bloom."_

_"The two of you will never have a matching schedule," Kise sighs and runs a hand through his hair; shit, the hairspray's tangled in the roots again, and will take forever to sort in the shower._

_Takao pulls a face, then pushes down a layer of clothes on the table to make room for his breakfast._

_"In two months we will. When Shin-chan starts working for Seijuuro-chan's company, you can come over and make him hate you even more than he already does," he laughs while Kise mutters 'God, I'd never date anyone that tsun' under his breath._

_"You never date anyone, though," Takao quips after him before Kise sneaks into the shower, but he pretends not to hear. It's not a discussion he's up for before getting at least a litre and a half of coffee into his system, even if both of them already know how it would end._

_No, he never dates anyone._

_Nobody's ever been worth the effort, and nobody probably ever will; in three years he's seen more men and women waltz in and out of his life than most do in a lifetime, but it's always a stream of the same old predictable lies._

_"By the way," Takao comments casually when Kise returns toweling his hair, "Riko-chan said that if you keep leading Yukari-chan on any longer, you're really getting fired."_

_It makes Kise halt._

_"I'll handle it," he mutters, even if the truth is that he hasn't handled much of anything in months._

_Still, each night he shows up at the club, a sparkling star amidst an endless, dark sky. The only thing he always looks forward to is the new accountant, and the odd chance when they get to share a break; the way she looks at him is different from most people, like she can always see past his facade._

_Some days it's disconcerting, some days it's a relief._

_But tonight Kise doesn't know what it is, since they're all too busy to catch a breath. The club is packed from beginning to end, a temporary challenge he throws himself head first; it distracts him, kind of, for the hours it takes for the clock to hit six thirty. It distracts him like the silence of the street and the smoke on his fingers, until it's time to finally head home._

_But he never does._

_There's a sound at the door when someone enters, a jingle like the one he's heard a thousand times before; and any other night he might not care enough to even lift his gaze, but tonight is not like any other night._

_Because in that moment something comes alive at the back of his mind, like a sudden node that lights up on his mental grid––_

_(Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue)_

_––and it hits him like a combination of gold and fire._

_For a second he holds his breath, reeling that sudden wave of emotion back in while Riko's chuckle cuts the air._

_"Oh, hey. You must be 'Dai-chan'. Momoi said you’d show up around this time.”_

_Kise turns his head, and the man who stands confused in the middle of the entrance somehow fixes him dead in his tracks. With his slouched clothes and short messy hair, the guy would fit right in with the sports magazines Kise read in high school, but there's an aura that surrounds him like something Kise has never seen in his life._

_It's ridiculous._

_It's impossible._

_This cannot..._

_But something inside Kise Ryouta bursts aflame anyway, and when he finally takes a step towards that table, the strength of that fire holds his whole heart ablaze._

_“…You look kinda lost. Are you sure you’ve come to the right place?”_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story could have been simply lighthearted and fun, but having seen footage of real host clubs, I didn't want to skim over the less-than-favourable aspects of the job either; the point was not to pass judgment on anyone, but that everything simply comes down to the choices we make in life. That being said, I chose the hosts in this AU precisely because I feel their characters would survive in that kind of environment (and hey, because they're all ikemen, duh). I'm sad I couldn't implement everyone more, but hey, at least I got Kuroko to side-eye these idiots through Nigou.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this, insane as it drove me at times. I also have roughly a million R-rated scenarios in my head that follow this story (because it's not like a certain aho wouldn't blow his money on private booths with a certain blond moron in the two months that follow), but we're proooobably all better off not reading about those.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and once again - happy birthday marta, you insufferable sparkling tool.


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